‘He can afford to be,’ a fellow cadet told Yedrin after a day’s training. They were drenched in sweat as they strode back across a dusty plain towards their camp. ‘Look about.’

Yedrin did.

‘He’s got two thousand of the best.’

Yedrin laughed. He’d never thought about himself as one of those. But it was true.

‘Think of it like this,’ the other cadet said. ‘Their job was to take rough ore and beat out the impurities, and then smelt us into steel. It’s Luka’s job to sharpen us into a blade.’

The metaphor seemed apt. Luka’s job was to turn Yedrin and the others into Whiteshields, and then to bring them to battle so they could kill or be killed.

Only then would they be fit to join the shock troopers.

Six months after Luka had taken command of them, they had drilled, marched, manoeuvred, camped and practised all manner of military assaults and defensive actions. Almost all who had ­arrived graduated as Whiteshields.

There had been another ceremony, this time in the shadow of the ruins of the great Kromarch. Major Luka’s voice had broken as he announced their graduation. One by one they filed up to shake his hand and receive their tridome helmet from him.

‘I am proud of you all,’ he declared. ‘Make what farewells you need to. You are all to be transferred to the battlefront within days.’ There was a great cheer. ‘We are going to a planet named Malouri. Yes! Your last test is upon you all. You are being sent into battle. Those of you that survive will be graduated from Whiteshield to Cadian Shock Trooper!’

A stunned silence greeted these words. Yedrin felt a wave of fear and joy surge through him. He thought of his mother, and tears choked him up, and he prayed that he could meet this last test with all the courage and grit of his forebears.

Seven

SEVEN

They had been on the lower decks of some troop transport when they had first been given their orders to end the siege on Malouri. Bendikt had promised his regiment they would at last be returning to El’Phanor, where the real fighting was, but Lord Mili­tant Warmund, it seemed, had not quite forgiven Isaiah Bendikt for killing the Praetorian general, Reginald de Barka, in a duel.

Duels were disapproved of within Cadian ranks, but the Praetorian had insulted Cadia, and Bendikt did not think he had any choice. Warmund disagreed, of course, which was why they were here, fighting border wars.

‘Another pointless conflict,’ Bendikt stated with fury as he slammed the parchment down onto his desk. The broad oak timbers splintered under the impact.